by Ben Miller
‘Nothing,’ said Torvil.
‘Then why are you giving them away?’ said the Mining Elf.
‘Because it’s Christmas!’
The Mining Elf stared at Torvil. Then he smiled. And then he burst into hysterical laughter. ‘Very good!’ he said. ‘Very good. You don’t give anything away for free! Well, you’re not tricking me into taking faulty toys! Good day to you!’ He hoisted his pickaxe back on to his shoulder, and continued on his way.
Torvil rejoined Gerda on the other side of the road.
‘What happened?’ said Gerda.
‘He wouldn’t take them,’ said Torvil. ‘I think he thought it was some kind of trick. People don’t trust me.’
‘Let me try,’ said Gerda. She crossed the street to a neighbouring house and, balancing the toys as best she could on one arm, she knocked at the door. There was no reply, so she knocked again. One of the upstairs lights came on, and a few moments later an elf woman wearing a large felt hat appeared in the doorway. Gerda showed her the toys, and – just as with the Mining Elf – the woman shook her head and closed the door. Gerda made her way back across the empty street.
‘And?’ said Torvil.
‘She couldn’t believe that that you would be giving toys away,’ said Gerda.
‘This is terrible,’ said Torvil. ‘We have to give the children their toys.’
‘If only we could get inside somehow and just leave them to be found,’ said Gerda.
‘Oh, if only!’ exclaimed Torvil. ‘But all their doors are locked. The only way in is down the—’
He stopped abruptly and looked at Gerda.
‘Chimney?’ she asked.
‘But how would I fit the toys in?’
Gerda smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘What about your magic delivery sack?’
Bit by bit, a broad smile began to spread across Torvil’s face.
‘We couldn’t,’ he said. ‘Could we?’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Torvil ran his finger around the inside edge of the chimney pot, and held it up for closer inspection. It was covered in soot.
‘Torvil!’ hissed Gerda from the alley below. ‘Hurry up!’ After a few wrong turnings, Torvil had managed to locate Steinar’s cottage, tucked away in the East Village. He was now up on the roof, while Gerda stood guard.
‘Are you sure there’s no other way in?’ asked Torvil, in as loud a voice as he dared.
Torvil ran his finger around the inside edge of the chimney pot.
‘Positive!’ called Gerda. ‘The door’s locked,’ she said, testing it again just to make sure. ‘And so are all the windows.’
‘Good. Good,’ said Torvil. ‘Then this is definitely the way forward,’ he said, thinking to himself that it definitely wasn’t. He was about to tell Gerda that he thought he might be allergic to coal dust, when his eye caught something peeping out from the sack of toys beside him: the front wheel of the red bicycle. And then it hit him: if he didn’t go through with this, then Kiti wouldn’t get a bicycle for Christmas, and no matter how little he liked the thought of climbing down the inside of a filthy chimney, that just couldn’t be right.
‘Okay,’ he hissed. ‘I’m going in.’
Taking a deep breath, he swung his right leg over the edge of the chimney pot, then his left. Once he had a toe-hold, he gathered up the toy sack and swung it over his shoulder.
He was now crouching inside the chimney pot, with just his head peeping out.
‘Okay, I’m going to slowly make my way down,’ he called to Gerda, which was the last thing she heard him say before he fell.
Gerda rushed to the window, where she saw a huge cloud of ash billow out from the fireplace. When it settled, there was Torvil, his red velvet coat and hat completely covered in soot. Gerda had to put her hand over her mouth so that he didn’t see her laughing. Thankfully, Torvil was coughing so much he didn’t notice. Once he had recovered his composure, Gerda gestured for him to open the window.
‘Right,’ said Torvil opening up the sack. ‘Where shall I leave the bicycle?’
‘By the tree,’ said Gerda. ‘That way Kiti will know it’s for Christmas.’
‘Good idea,’ said Torvil, and went to do as he was told. Seconds later, he was back.
‘What about the small stuff?’ he said.
‘Leave that by the tree too,’ said Gerda.
‘But we want Kiti to know they are presents,’ said Torvil. ‘She might think they are decorations. You know, that have fallen off.’
‘I know!’ said Gerda excitedly. ‘Take off one of your stockings.’
‘Why?’ said Torvil.
‘Just do it,’ said Gerda. ‘Quick.’
Shaking his head, Torvil pulled off one of his boots, then peeled off one of his red woollen socks.
‘Put all the little toys in that,’ said Gerda, ‘and put them at the bottom of Kiti’s bed.’
‘Are you serious?’ said Torvil. ‘What if she wakes up?’
‘She won’t,’ said Gerda. ‘Not if you are really, really quiet.’
‘Right,’ said Torvil, and quickly filled the stocking with lots of small presents. He was just about to tiptoe up the stairs when he stopped, remembering something. He went over to his sack of toys, and rummaged about in the bottom of it. Finally, he found it: an orange. Carefully, he slipped the orange into the toe of the sock.
‘Why the orange?’ asked Gerda.
‘I have no idea,’ said Torvil.
Seconds later, Torvil let himself out of the front door, and joined Gerda in the alleyway. He was beaming from ear to ear. ‘We did it, Gerda!’ he said joyfully. ‘We did it!’
‘We’ve done one tiny part of it,’ said Gerda. ‘What about all the other children? I mean, look at all these houses! How are we going to get round all of them before everyone wakes up?
Torvil’s heart sank. Gerda was right. It had taken for ever to climb up on to Steinar’s roof, and this was one of the smallest houses in the town, and therefore one of the easiest to climb. How was he going to get round all the others?
It was then that they heard a loud sniffle from behind them in the alley. Torvil and Gerda turned to see a large reindeer with a runny-looking nose.
‘Can I be of any assistance?’ said a familiar voice.
‘Rudolph!’ exclaimed Torvil. ‘You’re real!’
‘As real as it gets,’ said Rudolph.
And without a further word between them, Torvil swung himself up on to the reindeer’s back, settled his bag of toys over his shoulder, and took off into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Three
When Torvil and Gerda arrived at Steinar’s house with the roast goose, of course they didn’t say anything about the visit they had made earlier that morning while everyone was asleep.
‘Special delivery,’ said Torvil with a smile, when Steinar opened the door. ‘Righto,’ said Steinar, ‘I’ll grab my coat.’
‘No, wait,’ said Torvil, holding up a large serving plate, covered with a giant silver cloche. ‘This is nothing to do with work. This is for you.’
‘And so are these,’ said Gerda, peeping out from behind a tower of steaming serving dishes.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Steinar, ‘I really don’t understand . . .’
‘You’ve put food on my table all year,’ said Torvil, humbly, ‘with your beautiful toys. Now I’d like to return the favour. Please?’
He stepped forward and placed the goose in Steinar’s hands.
‘You’ve brought me Christmas dinner?’ asked Steinar.
‘The very least I could do,’ said Torvil.
There was a pause, while Steinar looked at the goose, then at Torvil and Gerda, trying to make sense of it all.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘I can’t accept this.’ Torvil’s face fell. ‘Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’ asked Torvil.
‘Unless you both agree to join us,’ said Steinar, breaking into a smile.
‘We’d love to,�
� said Gerda.
Within minutes, the table was set and the company seated. With a flourish, Steinar removed the cloche to reveal the goose, golden brown and stuffed to bursting with oranges, chestnuts, sage and thyme; the dish around it was spilling over with bitter sprouts, sweet carrots, succulent cabbage and crispy roast potatoes. There was no fit reaction other than applause, and Gerda bobbed a curtsy.
But the true delights of a Christmas dinner, as you will know, are the trimmings, and Gerda had spared no detail. Every corner of the table was sentried with tall jars of chutney, compote, coulis, mustard and relish; and a flotilla of china jugs began to make their way up and down the table, laden with steaming bread sauces, rich-smelling port gravies and eye-wateringly sweet-and-sour cranberry jams.
Jokes were told, backs were slapped, eyelashes were batted, and long and tedious stories related with unforgivable attention to detail. With every mouthful, the room became cosier, and hearts became closer. Finally chairs were pushed back, pipes lit, and a huge log laid carefully on the fire. It was then that they noticed that the ceiling was awash with blue light. The blue moment had arrived, and day had finally triumphed over night. The door and shutters were opened, and the four adults watched with broad smiles as Kiti rode up and down the tiny alleyway on her brand new red bicycle.
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘And that,’ whispered the elf, ‘is how I became Father Christmas. Doubly so, because shortly afterwards I married Gerda, and she gave birth to my nine sons.’
We were on the top floor of a brownstone in Brooklyn, New York City, getting ready to deliver presents for three children called Ethan, Caleb and Madison. Over the past few minutes we had visited thirty-seven states, and delivered 47.2 million presents.
‘You married Gerda!’ I said. ‘I’m so glad. So she’s Mrs Christmas?’
‘One and the same,’ said the elf.
Maybe you’ve heard of the magic key? Until that night, I hadn’t, and I had always wondered how Father Christmas manages to get into houses where they don’t have chimneys. Well, it turns out that he has a special key, made by the elves, which fits any lock. I did ask him why he still bothered climbing down chimneys if he could just come straight in through the door, and I have to say, I thought his answer was very interesting indeed.
‘I like chimneys,’ he said simply. ‘They’re fast and they get you right where you need to be. Like a fireman’s pole. Yes, a fireman could walk down the stairs to get to the fire engine, but it’s the pole that will get him there quickest. Plus –’ he paused and turned to look at me – ‘chimneys keep it real. Remind me of where I started.’
The magic key, which had been feeling its way around the inside of the lock, suddenly took a grip of the mechanism and pulled back the bolt on the door. Father Christmas looked at me, triumphant, then carefully pushed back the door so that he could see inside.
‘Clear,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
We crept down the hallway, searching each room for the Christmas tree. Eventually I spotted it in the kitchen.
I set Father Christmas down, and we began checking the labels at the top of the sack. After a night of rummaging for presents, I’d realised that the sack wasn’t just magic because it could hold so many toys, but because the presents you were looking for would somehow always rise to the top.
‘But wait,’ I whispered. ‘I know you started with elves. But why did you start giving presents to humans?’
‘Ah,’ said Father Christmas. ‘That came with the factory.’
‘Factory?’ I asked, placing what could only be a football under the tree.
‘I couldn’t go on charging top whack, so I decided to drop my prices. Amazingly, I started to sell more toys than ever. Soon Steinar couldn’t keep up with demand, so we took over the old shoe factory, and employed all the out-of-work elves as toymakers,’ said Father Christmas. In the time it had taken me to lay one present, he had set out all the rest. There they were in three neat piles, one for each child. ‘Luckily, all the skills involved in shoemaking – leather work, stitching, hammering – are very useful in toymaking,’ he continued. ‘So, if an elf can make a great pair of shoes, he or she can also make a great My Little Pony, or a Gravity Maze.’
‘So all the elves had jobs again?’
‘Exactly,’ said Father Christmas. We were now in the hallway, where he closed the door, and tested the handle, just to make sure we hadn’t left it unlocked. ‘And, just as they had once bought elfin shoes, humans started to buy elfin toys. You must have noticed that feeling of magic when you enter a human toyshop?’ He peered at me over his little round glasses. ‘It’s because all the toys are made by elves.’
‘I never knew that,’ I said, and carried him back out into the street.
‘All the good ones, anyway. And if humans buy our toys throughout the year – for birthdays and so on – then it’s only fair that we give them free toys at Christmas.’
‘How’s your ankle?’ I asked.
‘The swelling’s gone down,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Thanks to you. I reckon I’ll be able to put weight on it soon.’
We were now back at the sleigh, and I lifted him up into the driver’s seat.
‘Do you want to know the real secret?’ he asked. ‘The thing I discovered that very first Christmas?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said, as I climbed up beside him.
‘It’s lovely to receive a present. But the good feeling fades after a while, and you just find you want something else. When you give something . . . and you don’t tell anyone . . . well, that good feeling stays with you for ever.’
With that, he shook the reins and the reindeer began to gather pace. The snow was patchy on the ground, and the sleigh’s rails sparked every time they met the tarmac. We turned a corner, and suddenly right in front of us was the Manhattan Bridge. I was just beginning to wonder how we were ever going to clear it when Rudolph made a glorious leap up into the moonlight, and we went rushing towards the stars.
Chapter Thirty-Five
At least, I think that’s what happened. The truth is, by then I was beginning to feel very sleepy indeed. I remember flying over the Niagara Falls, with Lake Eerie and Lake Ontario stretched out on either side, but I must have fallen asleep, because I can’t remember any more of the journey.
Meanwhile, Father Christmas must have carried on his deliveries, visiting Vermont, then New Hampshire and Maine, before crossing the Canadian border to New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, looping back via Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland, sweeping up to Quebec and Ontario and zig-zagging west from Manitoba to the Nunavut to Saskatchewan to the Northwest Territories to Alberta, then daisy-chaining through British Colombia and the Yukon to mop up Alaska.
And then, having finished all of his North American deliveries, he must have swooped across the globe to return to my house to drop me off.
But, really, I’m just guessing . . .
Because the only thing I remember was waking up in my fireplace, covered in soot. I felt something moving underneath me, and it was a few seconds before I realised it was Father Christmas. Despite being only half my height, he had somehow managed to carry me from the sleigh to the chimney pot, and was now face down in the cold ashes.
Suddenly wide awake, I jumped up and helped him to his feet. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked with concern.
‘I think I’ve twisted my ankle again,’ he said. ‘It had only just started feeling better.’
‘Here, take a seat,’ I said.
‘Is there any brandy?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Um, I think you drank it all before we left,’ I said. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll fetch you another bag of frozen peas.’
‘Whoop-ee-doo,’ he said.
When I returned from the kitchen, he had a grave look on his face.
‘Look, I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘But I am going to need one last bit of help. These are for you and your sisters,’ he said, handing me his sack of presents.
‘I
’d be delighted,’ I replied, sweeping the bag up onto my shoulder.
‘I am going to need one last bit of help.’
‘And, Jackson . . .’
‘Yes?’ I asked.
‘Thank you.’
I smiled. I somehow knew that when I came back downstairs, he wouldn’t be there, and that this was us saying goodbye.
‘Merry Christmas, Jackson’ he said.
‘Merry Christmas, Father Christmas,’ I replied.
That night I had delivered millions of presents, but Father Christmas had always been with me. Now, as I climbed the stairs with the world-famous sack in my hands, I really felt the pressure. My sisters were depending on me, and I mustn’t let them down.
Hardly daring to breathe, I crept into their room. There, at the end of their beds, were their empty stockings. I couldn’t really see in the dark, so I just trusted the sack to hand me the right presents. I knew if I made a sound – any sound at all – my sisters would wake up and see me, and then they would never believe in Father Christmas ever again.
Once I was done, I crept silently down the hall, and placed Father Christmas’s sack at the bottom of my bed. He and I had delivered presents to all the children in the world, except one. Whatever was left, I reasoned to myself, must be meant for me.
So it was still a surprise when I woke the next morning, and delved into the bottom of the sack. Most years I got some of the things on my list, but this year . . . well, I got every single thing that I wanted. Even the exact Star Wars Han Solo action figure I had asked for. There was a present I hadn’t asked for too, but always secretly wanted: a telescope for looking at the stars. That’s the really cool thing about Father Christmas – he knows you better than you know yourself.
My sisters had a great Christmas too. As well as the Duplo set and the Nerf guns they had both asked for, there were two of the most beautiful Matryoshka dolls. To begin with, neither of them knew what they were. But I was able to explain and to do some great big brother work by showing them how each one came apart in the middle, and inside was another, slightly smaller doll, and how you could set them all out so you had a whole row. That’s a bit like people. Inside us is every person we’ve ever been, even from when we were very small.